We Remain
by PerfectDisaster22
Summary: The murder of two princes of the royal family of Arcadia sent shock waves throughout all of Strangeland. On the eve of the princes' funerals, their family reflects on the tragedy and what they, the ones who remain, can do to move on.
1. Helpless

**Author's Note**: This idea came to me while RPing with my friend Henderson (as many of my ideas come to me, these days). I intended for it to be a one-shot, but, as tends to happen to me, I got carried away and it's now a five-part short story. Originally, I only wanted to cover this plot chronologically, from one omniscient 3rd person POV. But then I kept finding more and more characters who wanted to comment on the action, so I decided to dedicate one chapter to each of them. Hence, the five chapters and the use of 1st person narrative.

Psychologist Elizabeth Kubler-Ross identified five stages of the grieving process- denial, anger, bartering, depression, and acceptance. I've tried to sculpt each chapter (and each character's reaction) around one of those stages. This is what happens when I let my psychology minor interfere with my writing process.

Oh, and just for reference, these chapters aren't chronological. All five take place in the same night, but at different times in the evening. So I hope you don't get confused that all the characters don't bump into each other.

This first chapter covers the stage of bartering. It went in a very interesting direction towards the end; I didn't expect to end up where I did. Originally I meant to end this chapter with Billie, this chapter's narrator, yelling to the skies, cursing everyone and everything out. Instead, he actually came to some conclusions and found a surprising way to deal with his grief. I like how this chapter turned out; I hope you do, too.

**Disclaimer**: A statement made to cover one's own ass. Since every chapter features different characters, I'll have to put a new one of these in each chapter. Sigh. Okay, I don't own Billie Joe, Joseph, or Jakob Armstrong. Additionally, I don't own St. Jimmy, Henderson, Jinx, Mike Dirnt or Tre Cool. I do own the characters of Roxie and Josh. The Guardians (who are mentioned, but who never directly appear in the story) are also mine. No copywrite infringement or defamation of name is intended. Also, the name Sotera comes from the Greek word Soter, which means savior; I used it because I enjoy puns.

* * *

The funeral ball was still going strong as I slipped outside. The soft, lilting music of the sad waltz followed me, refusing to let me get away that easily. A warm May breeze blew around me, fingering my face and hair like a soft caress before wrapping around me and blowing on its lazy way. Without sparing a backwards glance for the people gathered in the ballroom of Ainahau Palace, I shoved my hands in my pockets and disappeared into the shadows.

I walked along the lawn, my Converse-clad feet kicking at random tufts of grass, my eyes focused on the stars overhead. For some reason, the stars always looked most beautiful from the palace gardens. The night was quiet, peaceful, almost achingly beautiful; a perfect counterpoint to the reason why there were so many people gathered in the palace tonight.

I kept as quiet as I could, loosening my tie and undoing the first two buttons of my shirt, rumpling my suit just enough so I felt somewhat casual as I strolled through the gardens. I'd lived in the royal palace of Arcadia (a land known to the locals as Strangeland) for 21 years, since I married my wife at age 18, but the beauty of our home still was not- and would never be- lost on me. I passed the extensive beds of white, blue, pink, yellow, and purple irises (my wife's favorite flower), red and white roses, lily of the valley, white gardenia, peonies, pure white lilies, white, dark and light purple lilacs, white and purple hydrangea, and dozens of others I couldn't name, for once blind to their beauty. I walked until I found a certain flower- bleeding heart, which someone once told me was the official funeral flower of Tibet. I picked a few stalks, then turned south, heading for the secluded, far corner of the gardens, where rested the aim of my walk.

The grave markers were nestled under a huge, ancient weeping willow, two of which were surrounded and damn near buried in flowers and tokens of sympathy. I brushed aside the gently swaying branches and lay my flowers at the headstones before taking a seat on the bench situated at the foot of the graves. I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my thighs as I stared blankly at the headstones, doing my best to ignore the pedestal in the center, on which rested a funerary urn. The headstones were simple, a rectangular block made of black marble on which the identifying information was carved, with a white marble bust of the deceased soul resting on top.

I've buried a lot of people I love in my life. I lost my father to cancer when I was ten, and I thought no loss could possibly be worse than that. However, each funeral since then has been worse than the one before; possibly because it's one more grief added onto the yoke of my burdens, one more person who'll never come back to me. I've lost family members, and more dear friends than I care to think about.

But nothing will ever be as painful as burying two of my children.

It breaks the natural order, a parent burying a child. It would have been bad enough had I lost only one son. But I had lost two. Two of my three sons, two of my six children, were now lying stiff and cold six feet underground.

The worst part of burying my boys was knowing that it could all have been prevented.

There's something that sets my wife and children apart from other people in Strangeland, besides the fact that we're the royal family of Arcadia. The whole reason that we're the royal family is because my wife and kids are "blessed" with the "gift" of magic. My wife Roxie and her two closest friends Henderson and Jinx (who happens to be my older sister Anna) were all born with this magic, but it wasn't activated until Rox and Henderson were 15, and Jinx 18 years old. That's when they were told that they were the mythical Saints of Strangeland, the destined protectors, and in Roxie's case ruler, of Arcadia. The Jesus has royal blood in his or her veins, and thus rules on high as King or Queen of Arcadia; the Patron Saints are kind of like the aristocracy of Strangeland. Henderson Lee was Lady Henderson Adrienne Gloria Mefina, the Patron Saint of the Denial; Jinx was Lady Anna Darlene Michelle Dacer, the Patron Saint of the Lost and Found; and Roxie O'Connell was Roxanne Grace Isabella Sotera Corianth, the Jesus of Suburbia and Princess of Arcadia.

Henderson, Jinx and Roxie married Mike, Tre, and me, respectively. We're what the Guardians call "mortals," meaning we have no magic in our veins. But because the girls do, so do all of our kids. We have quite an impressive array of second-generation Patron Saints now; thirteen, to be exact.

Well, eleven now.

I stared at the headstones again, my eyes filling with tears as I gazed upon the headstones.

_Joseph Marciano Armstrong  
__(Crown Prince Joseph Oliver Daniel Marciano Corianth-Armstrong)  
__The Jesus of Suburbia  
__15 March 1995- 14 May 2016_

_Joshua Lee Armstrong  
__(Prince Joshua David Alexander Lee Corianth-Armstrong)  
__The Idiot America  
__06 September 2004- 14 May 2016_

Tears filled my eyes as I gazed at the marble busts of my sons' faces. They had each contained magic in a startling degree; Joey's promoting order and peace, Josh's tending towards chaos and mischief, counterpoints and natural balances to each other. But all that magic hadn't been enough to save them.

I looked up through the branches of the willow tree, up to the stars. Technically, the Guardians' plane lies alongside Strangeland, not above it. But it's traditional to look up when addressing deities and protectors.

"Why did you do it?" I murmured, pain making my voice break. "Why didn't you let them come back? Isn't that what their powers are supposed to do, protect them from dying?"

Roxie, Henderson and Jinx have all died multiple times, whether due to magical battles or bullets (and in some of Roxie's cases in particular, multiple difficult childbirths). By now we'd all accepted that death was a necessary part of their job as the Saviors; typically by dying, they instigated a disruption of the cosmic forces that held sway over Strangeland, and by returning from the dead they were able to initiate needed change. We'd all come to think of the Saints as invincible, immortal. We'd sunk into a more or less comfortable assumption that they would never really die, that they would always return.

The deaths of my children were working to rapidly reverse that confident delusion.

I furiously blinked back tears as I stared at the busts of my sons' faces. What good was their magic if it was unable to save them? Why had they been given these powers, if they'd been snatched away from us before they'd been able to do anything good with them? Why had the Guardians demanded the lives of my boys? Joey had only turned 21 a couple of months ago; Josh had been a few months shy of turning 12. They were innocents. Why had they been taken away?

I turned my head back towards the palace. I could just make out the figure of my wife rising from her throne, giving voice to the speech she'd been working on for a week now. A speech about never forgetting the danger that still lurked in Arcadia, the threat that she promised anew to eradicate forever; she spoke about the need to not forget the loss of the little Saints, as people had taken to calling all of our children.

I winced as I watched her. Even from here, it was painfully clear to me how heavy a toll the past week had taken on my wife. Nobody else would have noticed it; when Roxie stood her posture was as perfect as ever, and I didn't have to see her face to know that other than a faint tinge of sadness, her features would be clear and unlined. But I had seen her grasp the arms of her throne as she stood. To anyone else, that motion was meaningless; to me, it was a warning sign that her back was in pain again, and she should be taken to bed soon.

Roxie is a fourth degree black belt grand master of hiding pain, physical or emotional, of putting on a poker face and doing her duty no matter what the cost to herself. If she got the notion into her stubborn head that she needed to remain in the hall until all the guests were gone, she would move among the groups of people and dance until she collapsed. And she would make damn sure that no one could see how much she hurt.

But I had made it my business since we were ten years old to notice every minute detail pertaining to her. She couldn't hide from me. It was the least I could do to know when she was in pain, given that the pain was my fault in the first place. The whole reason her back troubles had begun was her first pregnancy, with the son we had just buried. Joey had kicked and moved incessantly from the moment he was big enough for Roxie to feel his movements. He had been breeched in delivery, and in his typical stubborn fashion had gotten stuck. He more or less kicked himself around through the birth canal until he came out the proper way, destroying his mother's internal organs and lower back muscles in the process. It had made her body weaker, and her subsequent pregnancies and deliveries (which she endured directly against the doctors' orders) hadn't helped anything. The back pain would inevitably flare when she was stressed, and I would always know, no matter how she tried to mask it.

I hung my head, finally unable to hold back the tears. Roxie's pain… my boys' murders… the incessant danger my family faced… I was the head of the family, I should have been able to protect my wife and children. I had sworn to myself the day I learned of Roxie's magic that I would protect her, never let anything happen to her. And yet, time and time again, it had been I who was helpless, and she the one doing the saving. It wasn't fair. Why could I not protect those I loved most in the world? Why did I have to be useless to my family?

"What if we left?" I asked the heavens. "What if we left Strangeland, never came back? What if the girls gave up their magic? Then would you leave us alone? Would you let them come back? You always let the girls be reborn, why not my boys?"

They were traitorous thoughts, I knew. It had been I who once said that Strangeland was nothing without its Saints. The girls could no more give up their powers than I could give up music; it was a part of who they were. But I couldn't help but think that none of our problems would exist, were the girls not called to be heroes.

I sighed, turning my gaze back to my sons' graves. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. I should've been the one to go down and get Josh. Then maybe Jimmy would've been so distracted with me that he wouldn't have killed you two."

I glared at the funerary urn that contained Jimmy's remains. Had it been up to me, Jimmy's ashes would be at the bottom of the ocean, not laying in repose between Joey and Josh. But Roxie had demanded that Jimmy be laid to rest under this willow tree, which eventually would guard all of our graves. Despite what he had done, he was still her brother, still the boys' uncle, she had argued. She would bury him with the love he deserved.

"If you were still alive, I would kill you for what you did to them," I snarled at the obsidian urn. "You killed your nephews. You broke your sister's heart, again. I hope you're fucking happy."

Standing, I turned and stalked off. I would spend many more nights- and probably many days- by the graves of my two boys. But for now, I had the living to contend with. Though my boys rested in death, I was still alive, and I had to live for them now.

I re-entered the ballroom, inclining my head at the people who nodded or respectfully bowed to me. I wasn't the King, not officially; I had refused the title and the responsibilities. But I was still married to the Queen, a member of the royal family whether I liked it or not, so a certain amount of deference was always given to me.

Normally, at functions such as this, I was separated from my wife by the simple fact that she was on display as the leader of the country. I was content to remain in the crowd with Mike and Tre, always on my guard in case I had to spirit the children away while Roxie dealt with a problem, but I was perfectly happy to stay away from the throne and the public eye. Because of my refusal to be the King, however, I normally wasn't permitted to approach Roxie, or stand by her side at public functions.

I didn't give a shit about that right now. Roxie had been on display for a solid week now, always under scrutiny, always forced to hide her own emotions and discomfort in order to be Roxanne Sotera, Queen of Arcadia. I wouldn't allow that tonight.

I boldly walked up the steps of the raised dais on which three thrones were placed. Roxie was the only one still sitting in her throne; she had encouraged both the Dowager Princess and the new Crown Princess to leave the ball and get away from the public. I didn't bother bowing to Roxie; I just squatted before her, holding her gaze.

"It's late," I said softly. "And your back is killing you. Let's get you out of here."

Roxie sighed and nodded, not bothering to fight with me- yet another sign that she was exhausted beyond the point of endurance. I always knew when the pain was excruciating, because she wouldn't fight me when I tried to take care of her.

I stood and offered her my arm, following at least that bit of protocol. She stood- needing the arms of the throne for support again- and took my arm. The only sign she allowed of weakness was how hard she gripped my arm; other than that, she looked perfectly normal, raising the skirt of her dress in one hand, taking every care to keep her head up despite the weight of her amethyst-studded gold crown, keeping her posture straight and tall despite the weight of her black mourning clothes.

One of the perks of being queen- at least in Roxie's mind- was that she set the fashion trends for the aristocracy for public events such as this. It was an excuse for her to indulge her love of historical fashion or whatever else struck her fancy. Usually, she wore simple, free-flowing dresses for public audiences and events (and jeans and normal person clothes when she wasn't on the throne), but apparently tonight she'd felt the need to shield herself in something more elaborate, hiding from the world behind armor made of layers of clothes. Tonight's creation was made of heavy blue-black silks, with three-quarter length sleeves and a tight-fitting, squared off neckline bodice (I saw the advantages there- leave me alone, I'm a guy, she's my wife, I can stare at her chest all I like) over a full princess skirt with a bustle and a foot-long train, and gold and amethyst dangling earrings and bracelets, and of course the gold, amethyst-encrusted crown. The effect against her porcelain skin and violet eyes was beautiful, but the weight of all that material and jewelry in combination with her weariness was taking its toll. I had to get her out, quickly.

A path was cleared for me to escort Roxie out of the ballroom. She kept a small, gentle smile on her face, nodding to all that bowed to her. I ignored them. As soon as we were in the dark, deserted hallway, out of the eyesight of everyone in the ballroom, I bent over and picked Roxie up, gathering her into my arms. I may look small and lanky, but I'm surprisingly strong; even the added weight of her ensemble didn't deter me. With a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of her soul, Roxie closed her eyes, pausing only to take her crown off and put it on my head before winding her arms around my neck and laying her head on my shoulder.

I kissed her forehead as I walked, then quietly instructed her to open a panel in the wall that hid one of the many secret passages strewn throughout the palace. I had discovered the existence of the numerous hidden walkways shortly after Roxie, Mike, Henderson, Tre, Jinx and I had moved into the palace. Later, the kids and I had spent hours playing hide and seek and tag using the passages; Josh in particular had known the passageways better even than I did. I walked quickly, easily navigating to the palatial suite that belonged to us.

I set her to her feet gently, then closed the wall panel, concealing the passage once again. Without speaking, I set her crown on the mantle above the fireplace, then began removing her dress and the numerous underthings- Roxie didn't stint on historical detail, I'd give her that. There was even a corset.

"Was this really a good idea?" I asked as I began unthreading the torture device.  
Roxie nodded, undoing the bun that restrained her waist-length brown curls. "It actually helped a lot. Kept me from moving too much, so my back doesn't hurt as much as it could."

I nodded before throwing the contraption onto the ground. I rang for a maid, instructing her to take the crown and jewelry back to the vault where they were kept when Roxie wasn't wearing them, and to wash and put away her clothes after bringing us the herbal tea Jinx had concocted to help Roxie with pain. She bowed to us quickly before starting her tasks.

I picked Roxie up again easily, carrying her into our bathroom and holding her in my lap while I drew a bath for her. I eased her into the water, which I'd made as hot as I knew she could stand, and added in lavender bath salts in hopes that it would help her relax. Though she winced, she soon relaxed in the hot water, leaning against the wall of the tub. Pulling off the suit coat, tie, vest, and shirt, and kicking off my shoes, I took on the task of bathing her myself, keeping careful watch to be sure she didn't fall asleep in the water. As I massaged her back, coaxing the muscles to relax, she opened her eyes, though her gaze was blank and unfocused.

"I can't believe they're really gone," she said softly, her voice dead.

I nodded silently, kissing the top of her head. I kept quiet, knowing she didn't want a conversation, only to voice the thoughts she'd kept locked in her head for a solid week.

"I still remember holding each of them when they were babies," she continued in a choked voice, a single tear falling from her eyes. "Joey was so red and wrinkled… and Josh was so tiny, and he screamed so loud… That never changed, Joey was always like an old man in a boy's body, and Josh was always a little terror… And now…" More tears fell into the water, but neither she nor I made any move to stop them. "They were supposed to bury us," she whispered. "They were supposed to grow up, raise families, take over for me and Jinx and Henderson. This wasn't supposed to happen. Billie, I…"  
"I know, baby," I whispered. "But it did happen. And we gotta remember them, and keep living for them. You know that's what they want, what they died for. They died so we didn't have to."  
Roxie nodded, looking like a lost little girl. "That's what I'm supposed to do. Not Joey. Not Josh."  
Despite myself, a tiny smile quirked at my lips. "Joey always did take after you in the saving-people department."

A tired laugh left Roxie's lips before changing into soft sobs. Grabbing a towel, I lifted her out of the water, carrying her to our enormous bed. I closed the canopy curtains, hiding us from view, before curling around her, holding her close, as she finally let herself cry.

Seeing her grief renewed my anger with the Guardians for refusing to barter with me, but I kept it locked inside, taking care of Roxie in Joey and Josh's stead. They had always been the two children most fiercely protective of their mama, stepping in to shore her up and comfort her in times when I wasn't there. Now it was my turn, time to take over their job.

Maybe in this way, then, I wasn't totally useless. I may not be able to actively fight to protect everything I love, like Roxie did. But I could support her, be strong for her so she could be strong for the world. Maybe that was the legacy my sons had left me, what I had left to live up to. Silently thanking the boys for that insight, I pulled Roxie closer, cradling her as she cried herself to sleep.


	2. Anchored

**Author's Note**: This was an interesting chapter for me to write. It's not often that I write from Stella's perspective; she's an important character in Henderson's and my Strangeland mythology, but I haven't ever really focused on her. So I struggled a bit, trying to find her voice. Hopefully I was successful.

This chapter focuses around the stage of anger. It seemed appropriate to me, having Stella be the angry one, though like Billie in the last chapter she comes to some surprising conclusions for dealing with her emotions.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Stella, Mike, or Henderson. Still don't own Joey (damnit). I do own Roxie; Gloria and Ryan kind of belong to me, but really belong to Henderson.

* * *

I shifted in my throne, equally irritated with the heavy silver tiara on my head as I was by the long skirts of my black mourning dress. I never thought I would miss the skirt and blouse I'd worn earlier in the week for the formal announcement of the princes' deaths, but it was infinitely preferable to the formal court clothes we were forced to wear any time we were acting as The Royal Family.

I shifted in my seat again, looking out over the assembled people. I could pick out my numerous cousins, my aunts and uncles, my father. Some people were dancing, some were indulging in the banquet table at the Crown's expense, most were standing around in groups talking. It was mind-numbingly boring, but we'd all been required to go. Even Aunt Roxie, who you'd think would be able to issue a royal decree forbidding crap like this. But apparently the Guardians thought that the people of Strangeland needed to see that their rulers were strong.

I could've laughed at that. Anybody who doubted my Aunt Roxie's strength was an idiot. Same thing went for my mother and Aunt Jinx. Even my siblings and cousins, all of whom were younger than I, couldn't be faulted for mental fortitude.

As for me, however… my strength, and more importantly my patience, were rapidly diminishing. If I didn't get out of here soon, I was going to scream.

I looked around the room again. Any time my gaze fell past my Uncle Billie, my heart would lurch and my stomach would clench until I remembered that it was him, and not his eldest son. The physical similarity between father and son had been a constant comfort and a continuous source of pain for me this week; I could see so much of Joey in his father… so much that I would never see again.

Though he tried to keep his face unconcerned, Uncle Billie's gaze flicked to Aunt Roxie every few moments, keeping a constant watch on her. Just as everyone knew that Roxie was strong to a fault, they knew that Billie was an overprotective son of a bitch, almost more protective of Roxie than her brother Jimmy had been. The protectiveness came from almost equal mixes of undying love and adoration, and fear that she would be snatched from him at any moment. It was a quality that he had passed on to Joey, something that at the time I had found irritating, but now would do anything to see again.

Tearing my eyes away from my father-in-law reluctantly, my eyes happened upon my Aunt Jinx and Uncle Tre. The normally happy-go-lucky Tre Cool was still and sober now, his eyes revealing that he'd recently been crying. He was seated against the southern wall, which wasn't a wall so much as a line of thick columns that let in the air. Aunt Jinx was seated next to him, her arms around his shoulders, her head resting on his. Their hair clashed horribly; Jinx's is dyed orange and yellow and Tre's was reddish-brown (a natural color for once!), but they fit so perfectly together. They belonged with each other, always had, despite the three-year age gap.

I shook my head, my eyes now falling on my father. Mike was walking through the crowd, stopping to talk to the people he knew, but his eyes were always sweeping the room, searching for my mother, Henderson. Daddy had something of a white knight complex when it came to her; anytime he got the faintest feeling that Mom would be upset, he would instantly hare off to find her, whether or not she thought she wanted him there.

I blinked back tears. Aunt Roxie had Uncle Billie, Uncle Tre had Aunt Jinx, Mom had Daddy, I had… nobody.

Fortunately for me, my infant son Ryan chose that exact moment to stir and start crying. Reaching over the arm of my throne, I picked the three-month-old up, rocking him gently, but nothing would soothe him. Aunt Roxie glanced over at me and smiled wearily, reaching her arms out for her grandson, who I willingly surrendered.

"Somebody's tired," she commented, rocking Ryan and kissing his cheek, cooing to him softly with the ease of long years of practice.  
I nodded. "I'd better get him and Gloria up to bed."  
Aunt Roxie nodded. "Don't bother coming back down, with any luck this thing'll be over in an hour anyways and we can all go to bed. Stay with them, they'll need you tonight."

I smiled, a tiny gesture that didn't reach my eyes. Kissing Aunt Roxie on the cheek and retrieving my son from her arms, I walked off the dais, ignoring the people who bowed to me. I walked through the crowd, looking for the blond-haired holy terror that was my two-year-old.

"Gloria?" I called. "Gloria Rebel Adrienne Isabella Pritchard-Armstrong, where are you?"  
"Here I is, Mommy!" came the giggle-laden voice of my daughter.

She was very comfortably entrenched in her grandfather's arms. She waved at me merrily, but I could see sleep starting to take over her eyelids. I walked over to my father, trading tired smiles with him before focusing attention on my daughter.

"Time for bed, Gloria," I said.  
Gloria sniffed, shaking her head, her curls whipping around her face. "I can't."  
"Why not?" I asked, holding my temper in check and working to keep my voice even.  
"Cuz," she sniffed again. "Daddy always sings me to sleep."

It felt like an iron fist had crushed my heart in its grasp when I heard those words. Blinking back my tears, I tried to smile at her.

"Baby, we've got a CD full of songs Daddy used to sing," I said. "I'll put that on and keep playing it till you fall asleep, okay?"  
Gloria nodded, a fat tear falling from her blue eyes. "Okie."  
"I'll carry her up for you," my father said, kissing my forehead before carrying Gloria off.

I followed behind him, still rocking Ryan, my mind on nothing but getting as far away from the ball as possible. I wasn't so much walking out of the ballroom as I was running away. Running away from things one doesn't want to face seems to be a genetic trait in my family, one for which I fully blame my mother. But I couldn't fault her for this tendency; it was damned useful in situations like this. My aunt/godmother/mother-in-law might have the mental fortitude to put up with shit like this, but I don't.

"Where's Mom?" I asked, to take my mind off things.  
Daddy glanced back at me, a faintly amused, slightly exasperated look on his face. "Hiding."  
I couldn't help but chuckle. "Sounds like her."  
Daddy nodded. "I'll probably find her in a couple hours, out back smoking or in a closet somewhere."

My daddy stayed with me long enough to help me put the kids to bed. To my relief, they both quickly dropped off to sleep (for once). I walked through my suite to see Daddy out the door. He paused in the doorway, giving me a concerned look.

"How're you holding up, baby?" he asked.  
I shrugged. "I'm happy it's all over with. Other than that… I'm numb. It doesn't seem real."  
He nodded. "Get some sleep, Stella," he said, kissing my forehead.

I threw my arms around his shoulders and hugged him, squeezing my eyes shut over the tears. If Daddy knew I hadn't slept in a week, he would not be pleased. I didn't need him worrying about me.

"I love you, Daddy," I said, sounding like a little girl again.  
"I love you too, Stel," he sighed.

A moment later, and he was gone, and I was alone again. Ha. I'd been alone for a week now, why should it matter if one more person physically left my side?

I walked into our- my- bedroom, ripping off the formal clothes and pulling on a pair of jeans, one of Joey's hoodies, and a pair of chucks. Sure that my children wouldn't wake up any time soon, I slipped outside and took off at a run for the gardens.

It's an unfortunate lesson that my mother and I have learned the hard way- no matter how fast you run, you can never outrun your problems. The farther you run, the faster they catch up with you. But my mother and I are the Patron Saints of the Denial for a reason; we both stubbornly believe that someday we will be able to outrun our demons. We'll keep trying, at any rate, probably until it kills us.

I had told my father that I was numb. That was true, in part, but not the entirety of my reaction to what had happened. It still didn't _feel_ real, but I _knew_ it was. And knowing that my husband was dead made me incredibly angry.

We had had an entire life planned out, Joey and I. Someday, long years in the future when Aunt Roxie died for real (and for good), Joey would be crowned King of Arcadia, and I would sit beside him as Queen. We would lead our siblings and cousins as the next generation of protectors and Saints. Maybe we would give our parents more grandchildren to spoil. And we would be happy.

We had never doubted that this life would come true. We grew up together, he and I; I had been as much raised by Aunt Roxie and Uncle Billie as I had by my parents, and the same held true for Joey. Maybe it was only natural that we had fallen in love; maybe it was fated to happen. But by the time we were 13, we'd known that we were in love, that we would someday be married. Joey had asked me to marry him when we were 15, and we had gotten formally engaged two years later. Our mothers had been perfectly fine with it; ecstatic, actually. They loved the idea that their children were soulmates, destined for each other. Our fathers- especially my daddy- had taken a little more convincing. But eventually they had caved, and Joey and I had been married as soon as we were both 18. I had quickly become pregnant with Gloria, and then with Ryan. It had been like a fairy tale.

But this was one fairy tale that wasn't going to have a happy ending.

It wasn't that I was disappointed that I wouldn't rule beside Joey. I was lucky I could take care of myself and my children, to say nothing of an entire country (another trait I share with my mother). But I had spent my entire life assuming that my future was secured. Everything I had been taught, everything I had done, had been learned and done with the assumption that someday I would be Joey's queen.

Now, my entire life had unraveled. Every assumption I had made about my future was now undone. I wouldn't be Queen, Joey and I wouldn't be the protectors of our country, our family wouldn't grow in size, I would no longer have my soulmate by my side.

As I ran through the grounds, I couldn't help but feel that a part of me had died with Joey. I didn't know what to do with myself. I felt like I was adrift in a sea, with no anchor or buoy to hold me in place. I felt young, so very young and unprotected. For as long as I could remember, Joey had been there, the one thing that kept me firmly anchored to the ground. Now he was gone, and his absence was like a black hole, sucking what was left of me into oblivion.

My feet began to move of their own volition, carrying me back to my anchor. I brushed aside the branches of the willow tree, not needing the glow of the waxing moon to tell me which grave was Joey's. It wasn't that I had memorized where his grave was positioned; I just instinctively felt it, automatically knew where he was. It had always been like that with us in life; we hadn't needed to see each other to know where the other was. Apparently it would be like that in death too, and the familiarity of the instinct was an unexpected comfort.

I stood before Joey's headstone, staring at the marble bust of his face. In life, Joey had never looked this formal and still. The marble features were his, alright, but life and youth had softened them, and leant them a vitality that stone couldn't convey. My gaze turned blank as I drew his face up from my memory, feasting my mental eyes on the features I knew better than my own. His hair had been reddish-brown, like Billie's, but he had kept it shorter than his father's. His features had been nearly a carbon copy of Billie's, but just the faintest bit elongated, sharpened. His eyes had been a keen, penetrating green, never as unfocused as the eyes chiseled into the bust.

Though Joey had looked almost exactly like his father, his personality had been all Roxie's. He shared her sharp intellect, her sense of humor, her fierce protectiveness, her utter devotion to the ones she loved. The very best of Billie and Roxie had combined in their eldest son, and I had been the lucky recipient of that gift.

I blinked back tears. That was something else I had inherited from my mother- tear ducts wired to operate when I was stressed, sad, or angry.

"Why did you leave?" I asked him. "I need you! Our children need you! You've never lost a fight in your life, damnit. Why didn't you fight to stay with us?"

I wrapped my arms around myself as the sobs started. I knew I was being completely unfair; Joey had fought, hard. I knew what had happened that day; I had seen it in a dream, as clear as if I had been there. I knew that Joey had fought for his life, for his brother's. But in the end, it hadn't been enough. He had died, and he had left me.

"What do I do, Joey?" I whimpered. "I can't do this without you."

I sank to the ground, leaning against the headstone, staring at the ground under which lay my husband's coffin.

"Aunt Roxie offered to make Gloria her Heiress Apparent," I sniffed, wiping my cheeks free of tears. "Since she's the next Jesus, and all. I told her no. I know you didn't want our kids to have to deal with ruling Strangeland, on top of everything else." I drew a deep, steadying breath. "I can't fight without you, Joey. I don't work without you. I'm like Uncle Billie; my life revolves around the person I love. And you're gone. What can I do now?" I shook my head. "I can't be the Patron Saint if I don't have my Jesus. I'll take care of our children, I promise. I may be my mother's daughter, but I know better than to try to kill myself. You'd come back from the grave and shoot me if I tried." Despite myself, a weak laugh left me at that. "I'll teach them to fight, to be strong. But I don't want it anymore. Please don't me mad at me."

I stepped out from under the willow tree, and walked into the open, where I was bathed by the light of the moon and stars. I've always loved the stars; Daddy named me Estelle because he said I was his little star. As I looked up, seeking out my favorite constellations, it felt like Joey was looking back at me, that he approved of what I was going to do. That reassured me that my chosen path was the correct one.

"I renounce the title of the Patron Saint of the Denial," I said softly, but surely. "I give back the power that was given to me by the Guardians. I have no wish to retain the magic that killed my husband. I ask only for enough magic to train my children in their destinies."

There was no bright light or rushing of the winds to announce to the world that they had lost a Saint. I didn't even feel much; only a slight hollowness deep in the pit of my stomach. But finally, I felt at peace, and that was compensation enough for what I had given up.

I would withdraw from public life. No longer a Saint, I wouldn't be called upon to fight anymore. The title and powers of the Patron Saint of the Denial would fall to the next person in Henderson's line; in this case, my son, who would have assumed the title anyways. I would raise my children in the palace, but I wouldn't have to act in the capacity of the Crown Princess anymore. I was free to be only Lady Estelle, the Dowager Princess. I could live quietly, free from the pressures that ruled the lives of my family, free to spend my days and nights remembering my husband, and seeing him in the stars.


	3. Ashes

**Author's Note**: I had fun with this chapter. Henderson's character is a very interesting one to play with. She's a character continually torn between who she was and who she is now, and this story gives her a perfect chance to go through that mental battle with herself (again). I wasn't really surprised with the way this chapter ended, though for a minute there I thought she was gonna shock me. Since the character of Henderson doesn't belong to me but is instead based on a fellow author and good friend, I did my best to keep her narrative in character. If I failed, that's totally my fault.

This chapter deals with depression. Sorry, Henderson, I didn't really mean for you to be the depressed one in the bunch, but it kinda fits. Who else was gonna be depressed over Jimmy's death? And since this is one of two chapters that focuses at all on Jimmy, you got stuck with the depression chapter.

**Disclaimer**: Much though I may wish otherwise, I don't own Mike, Stella, or Brixton. I don't own Jimmy either, but Henderson and I co-own this take on him. Whatsername technically belongs to Green Day, but Henderson's crafted the character into something spectacular, so she owns all that. She also owns the characters of Luke, Ryleigh, Gloria and Ryan; I'm only borrowing them (I was the one who came up with their Saint titles- for some reason they decided to be difficult and have really weird titles and powers. Leave it to the Dirnt kids, I swear…). The name Armatage Shanks doesn't belong to me, but the character does (much to Billie's chagrin), as does his title.

* * *

I stood in the shadows of the hallway, leaning against one of the row of massive pillars that held up the roof and stood in lieu of an actual wall. From the privacy of my vantage point, I had a perfect view of the ball I had no intention of joining.

I had played along, had agreed to come to the ball with my husband and children. I had even gone so far as to put on a black dress, heels, and makeup. But at the last minute, I had worked a little magic, making a seam rip on my dress. I had told Mike to go ahead with Luke, Ryleigh, and Brixton, that I'd get a maid to stitch me up and I'd be right there. As soon as they were gone, I had stripped out of my formal clothes and pulled on a pair of black skinny jeans, battered old white chucks, a white wifebeater, and a black and white checked hoodie jacket. I'd put on double the amount of eyeliner I usually did, worked some magic to put multi-colored streaks in my blond hair, onto which I put my old tiara, and put on fire-engine red lipstick. When I was done, I slipped through the palace to my current location, and I watched.

Roxie sat on her throne, watching over the people eating and talking and dancing. I knew how hard it had to be for her to sit there when all she wanted was to retreat to her and Billie's suite, but none of that impatience showed on her face. She said all the time that she admired me for always speaking my mind and doing as I pleased, but I admired her for putting her own self-interest aside and sitting through this monstrosity.

On her right side sat my eldest daughter. My little baby girl, now a mother and a widow. She looked about as impatient as I felt, eager to get out of the ballroom and drop the masks everyone was forced to don, to stop being royalty and just be a heartbroken woman.

I looked around at the assembled people, sighing. I knew that all of them had come to mourn the loss of Rox and Billie's kids. I mourned with them; they had been my godsons, and I'd loved them. But I was one of four people who would be mourning the other man who'd died, and perhaps the only one whose mind would be primarily on that man, instead of the murdered princes.

Pulling away from the column, I walked out into the palace grounds, pulling out a pack of Newports (which my husband didn't know I had) and lighting one. I closed my eyes as I smoked; though the nicotine was nice, what I really craved was the mind-numbing apathetic blissfulness that came from one drug only- Novacaine, the most prized drug in the Streets of Shame. It's been years since I touched the stuff, but I guess the craving never stops.

I walked to the willow tree where Roxie had decided to bury them. I brushed aside the branches, running my skinny fingers through my hair. It wasn't fair that even in death, he could inspire such a reaction in me- butterflies in stomach, heart clenching, unable to breathe. For a minute I just stared at the urn that contained all that remained of the man I had loved, waiting for the symptoms to pass.

It made me a traitor, I suppose, to mourn the man who had killed my best friend's sons, my daughter's husband, my grandchildren's father. He was, after all, the rival Saint who had killed two of the royal princes of Arcadia. But I couldn't help it. Jimmy O'Connell had been my first love; in another life he could have been my soul mate. I might hate him, but I had never stopped loving him, and part of me had never let him go.

We had grown up in the Streets of Shame together, Jimmy and I. He and his little sister Roxie had moved into town when she and I were 12, and he 14. I had hated him, at first, resented him for encroaching on the place where my older brother Armatage and I ruled. But it wasn't too terribly long before J and I had fallen in love, and ruled the Streets together. And we had loved each other; many thought we were going to get married.

So how, you may ask, did I go from being Saint Whatsername, ruler of the Streets of Shame and lover of Saint Jimmy, to Lady Henderson Adrienne Gloria Mefina-Dirnt (aka'd as Henderson Lee), Patron Saint of the Denial and wife of Mike Dirnt?

Everything changed when I was 15, and Jimmy 17. Our powers had woken up. I learned I was the Saint; Jimmy became the Idiot America. Jimmy's powers didn't come from the Toralean Guardians, as Roxie's, Jinx's and mine did. Instead, he got his magic from the Ashurians, the opposing force to the Toraleans and all-around bad guys.

Jimmy's power drove him insane, turned him schizophrenic. I stayed with him, at first, even after Roxie, Jinx and the others left the Streets. Armatage and I did everything we could to try to help Jimmy. But he stopped responding to his medication (when we could get him to take it at all), and he turned hateful and dangerous. After he shot me through the shoulder, I decided I couldn't take it anymore.

So I left, and turned to Mike, a fellow reject of the Streets, who I'd also known since we were 10. Mike and I got married when we were 19, and had Stella a few months after Roxie gave birth to Joey. Over the years, Stella was joined by Luke (the Jerk- a horrible title, perhaps, but it made him a genius at crafting weaponry), Ryleigh (the Angel- my kids have the weirdest titles; it one means that she guards Strangeland's borders), and Brixton (the Sage- he would someday ascend to the Guardians' realm and join them as a protecting spirit).

I was happy with Mike, truly. I love him more than life itself, and I love our children, and our life together. I loved being the Patron Saint (most days) and living in the palace (usually).

But part of me has always been Whatsername. Part of me always belonged to the Streets, and to Jimmy. Maybe it'll always be that way; maybe there's a part of me that Mike will never be able to touch. And tonight, that part of me was screaming out in agony, grieving the loss of the man she had and still did love.

I stared at the urn that contained his ashes. Jimmy had been a dynamo in life; always moving, always acting, larger than life. And now, all that was left of him was contained in this simple black jar resting on a pedestal.

I was grateful, though, that there was still this much of him left to me. The Guardians had demanded that Jimmy be cremated, to prevent his magic from passing to someone else (though Josh had shared Jimmy's title, his magic had been Toralean, not Ashurian). They had further stated that Jimmy's remains had to be tossed into the sea, but this point Roxie had defied. She had stated that Jimmy had taken care of her when the rest of the world turned its back on her, and she refused to abandon him now.

_Saint Jimmy  
__(Christian James Eugene O'Connell)  
__The Idiot America  
__Requiem in Pace, my dearest brother._

I sank onto the bench that sat before the urn and two graves, unable to rip my gaze from Jimmy's remains. Here before me were the ashes of a previous life, and they represented more than the man who had died; they also represented that part of me that had died with him.

Maybe it wasn't so much Jimmy that I mourned. Maybe it was that I was in mourning for the memory of the J I had known, the idea of what I had left behind. I think that the actual Jimmy must have died years ago, leaving nothing but a twisted, evil shell behind. But I never let go of the memory of the real Jimmy, and I had never let go of the part of myself that belonged to him.

I sighed and looked away, turning my head as if I could actually see the Streets across the gardens. It had been years since I had been there, in any capacity. Once upon a time I had lived there as its ruler, and even after I had left I had had to return in my capacity as a Saint. But, despite Jimmy's deterioration and descent into madness, things had been quiet in the Streets for years, and there had been no reason for the Saints to make an appearance there. I had happily turned my back on it, focused on Mike and my family, tried my best to forget about who I had been.

But the Streets were still there. And now, with Jimmy dead, they needed Whatsername more than ever.

It was a tempting thought, really; to slip away in the darkness and take up the life I had left behind. My brother St. Armatage, Patron Saint of the Forgotten, had ruled the SOS in J's stead for years now. He had come up to the palace tonight at Roxie's invitation (I would have been astonished, had I not known that he still loved her and always would), and we'd had our first chance in years to talk to each other. From what he said, the Streets had deteriorated to the condition they had been in before he and I first took over. I hated to hear that; Jimmy had turned the Streets into a well-oiled machine, an absolute empire where he and I had reigned supreme. Now his creation was as dead as he was. I was Jimmy's partner and in some ways his heir; surely I would be able to bring the Streets back to their former glory.

It would be easy, so very easy. I had only to walk through the gardens, POOF myself over the garden wall (POOFing was what we called teleportation). No one would be watching; I could just walk into the Streets, and that'd be it. I would be home, and how hard would it be for Whatsername to resume control of her home?

Mike would let me go, I was sure of it. He and Jimmy had always hated each other, had constantly been in competition for my heart. But Mike had been the less demanding of the two; if he saw that I truly wanted to leave, he would let me go, even if it broke him. I had taken advantage of that when we were first married; for the first few years of our marriage I had gone back to J, had cheated on Mike again and again. I knew that if I were to leave now, Mike would understand.

But it was that understanding that held me here. Mike deserved very little of what I'd done to him (there had been that affair with one of Jimmy's Ashurian Saints- Brittney, the Antichrist, but I had killed her and put an end to that). I didn't deserve him. Yet for some reason, he still loved me, and he still stood by me. He had always been there when I truly needed him, had always been there to pick me back up when I fell. And I loved him. I didn't love him like I had loved Jimmy; J and I had shared a blazing, all-consuming firey passion, while my love for Mike was deep and abiding, like the sea. It was more real, more permanent. I might think about leaving, about running away and returning to what I thought I wanted, but I didn't think I actually could make myself walk away. I might not deserve Mike, but I was way too selfish to let him go.

Whatsername was dead, as dead as Jimmy was. Henderson, however, was still alive, and she had responsibilities to the ones she loved.

Thoughts of my responsibilities led my thoughts back to Stella. She was young, so young to have to go through the sorrow life had just put on her shoulders. But if I thought about it, she was older than I had been when I left Jimmy and married Mike. My little girl was all grown up. But she still needed me. She needed to learn how to live alone, how to go on without the person she'd loved for her entire life. I might not be good for much, but I could at least teach her how to do that.

There was also the matter of my grandchildren (God, that made me feel old). Two-year-old Gloria had assumed the full powers of the Jesus of Suburbia, now that her father was dead. As the heir of her father's and her other grandmother's power, it would fall to Roxie to teach Gloria how to use her magic. I wished her luck. Gloria was so much like Stella and me; she was likely to be a rebellious little hellion. And Ryan, our sweet baby boy, was the heir to Stella's and my magic, the future Patron Saint of the Denial. I couldn't forsake my grandchildren. They held my magic in their veins; they were the future of my country. I may not care overmuch about myself, but they were my world.

I would remain here, with Mike and our family. I would learn to be only Saint Henderson, and I would guard and protect my children and my grandchildren. I wouldn't forget Saint Jimmy, but I would remember the lessons I learned from his rise and fall, and I would protect my family from that fate.


	4. Lost

**Author's Note**: This was a difficult chapter for me to write. I feel like it's too short and kind of unfinished; it doesn't resolve itself as neatly as the previous chapters. But I think that fits. Grief is a messy process, and it doesn't always wrap itself up. But, as always, my characters surprised me; SJ, the narrator this time around, proved why she's her mother's daughter in this chapter.

This chapter was supposed to cover the stage of denial. That kind of happened, but what you really get this time around is a sense of vulnerability and confusion. I might not particularly like this chapter, but I really connected with SJ. She's about the same age I was when my daddy died, so when I was writing my way through this chapter I ended up putting a lot of my own feelings into her mouth. Enjoy.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Joey or Jake, but SJ, Josh, Jordan, and Jayde are all mine.

* * *

I sat in my throne, trying not to fidget under the scrutiny of everyone in the ballroom. But it was hard; my black Court mourning dress had gauze sleeves that irritated me, and the tiara on my head was heavy and giving me a headache. I wiggled in my seat, trying to sit up straight and look pretty, like my mother. I had spent most of tonight watching her out of the corner of my eye and copying her movements, trying to figure out how to act like a queen. Mama had been in the spotlight since she was my age, and she had promised to teach me how to do handle the constant attention.

I had been born a princess, but for my entire life I had just been another member of the royal family. I wasn't the Crown Prince; I was merely the fourth child and the second princess, so one had really paid much attention to me. But I was no longer just Princess SJ. I was Crown Princess Sara Jessica Emily Rose Corianth-Armstrong, the Patron Saint of Love and future Queen of Arcadia, and all eyes were on me.

Daddy had laughed (weakly, but it was a laugh nonetheless) when he first heard my new title, said that it was awfully long for such a short girl. I had to agree with him. Crown Princess Sara Jessica was a role that seemed too big for me. Part of me still couldn't believe that I was now the Crown Princess; that title had belonged to my cousin/sister-in-law only last week, how could it possibly mean me now?

I knew that people had been surprised that Mama had named me her Heiress Apparent. Many had thought that my niece Gloria would be the next Queen, since she was Joey's daughter and all. Failing that, they thought that my older brother Jakob, or his twin sister Jordan, would be named. But Mama had told me that Joey and Stella didn't want their kids to have to grow up with the pressures of being expected to rule, and since Jake and Jordan were the Lords of Hell they couldn't very well rule Arcadia as well. So that left me as the next in line… and here I was.

I shouldn't be freaking out this much, I figured. Mama had become a Saint when she was 15, only a year younger than me, and she had been crowned Queen only three years later, days after she married my daddy. Joey had been named the Crown Prince when he was a baby. Then, when Joey and Stella got married three years ago, Stella had become the Crown Princess. If they could handle this, surely I could.

But then again… Joey had been born the Crown Prince, and Stella had grown up knowing that she would marry Joey and be the Crown Princess, and eventually Queen. It had been nowhere in my future that I would become what I now was. I had thought that I would spend my entire life free to go around making people fall in love (and helping Daddy get himself back into Mama's good graces when he fucked up, which was often); I had never once thought that I would be Queen.

When Mama told me that I was going to be the Crown Princess, Daddy had said that it fit; he said I was the biggest princess of all his daughters. But I couldn't make sense of any of it. What was I doing, sitting on the dais next to my mother? Why was I answering to the title of Crown Princess? When had I become a Crown Princess? I was only SJ, just a 16-year-old girl. Where was Joey? He was the true Crown Prince… why wasn't he coming back to take what was his?

I guess my siblings and I don't understand death very well. It's always been a part of our lives, yeah, but it's never been permanent. Anytime anybody dies in our family, they always come back. We've had some close calls, yeah; there was the time when Aunt Henderson's coffin had been lowered into the ground before she woke up, and Mama almost hadn't come back after she gave birth to my youngest sister a decade ago. But at the end of the day, they had always returned. Why hadn't Joey? Why hadn't Josh? What made their deaths different?

I was very conscious that I was sitting in Joey's throne, that only ten days ago he had sat beside Mama as she held a general audience. I could swear I still smelled his cologne lingering to the padded fabric of the back and arms of the throne. Now I was here, in his place, bearing his title, taking over his destiny. It was wrong, so wrong. Joey had been born to be King. He had taken on the responsibilities of being Crown Prince when he was 10. He had been ready to take over for Mama, and everyone in the country (everyone who mattered, anyways) had loved him. How could I possibly take what was his? How could I do what he had sworn to do?

I wasn't Joey. I wasn't as strong as he was, or as brave. Joey had been fearless, a natural leader both in politics and in our magic. He had been a warrior, a fierce protector of our country and our power. I had hero-worshipped him, thought he was a god. Me? My power wasn't used for protection, it was used for love and beauty. I had never gone out to fight our enemies, like Joey, Stella, Jake, Jordan and Luke did. I wasn't nearly as strong as Joey was, and I didn't think I would ever get the hang of politics. How could anyone think I would be able to fill his shoes?

I sat up straighter when Mama glanced over at me. Even though I knew I was weak, I didn't want her to think I was. I wanted to deserve the trust she put in me, and I wanted to prove that I could rule someday, even if I didn't think I could.

"You look exhausted, Cupid," she said, using my nickname.  
I shrugged. "I'm alright."  
Mama raised a delicate eyebrow, seeing straight through my lie. "It's been a long night. Why don't you round up your little sister, and you two can take off for bed."  
I nodded gratefully. "Where are Jake and Jord?"  
"They took off with Jinx," she replied, her voice unworried though I saw the concern in her eyes. "They had to go take care of something."  
"Another uprising?" I guessed.  
"A border dispute," Mama answered.

I bit my lip. The country is generally pretty safe, thanks to Ryleigh and Aunt Jinx. But since Joey's death, there had been quite a few uprisings, people trying to come in and take over. Jakob had taken it upon himself to help Ryleigh guard our borders, and that meant that Jordan had to go too- she's the only one who can control Jake, especially when he loses his temper (which happens a _lot_). I knew from the look in Mama's eyes that she wanted to be out with them. She's been really worried about having any of us out of her sight since Joey and Josh died; I think she thinks that if she's there, she can keep everybody else from danger. Being the Jesus gives her a martyr complex a mile wide. She has more of a saving people thing than Harry bloody Potter. 'Cept she's not a whiny emo while she does it.

I stood and kissed Mama's cheek, then walked down the stairs of the dais and into the crowd, looking for my youngest sister. Knowing Jayde, as I did, she would be somewhere by herself, in the shadows somewhere.

When I didn't find her in the ballroom, I furrowed my brow and tried to sense her. I bit my lip when I figured out where she was; I should've known.

I looked down at myself and snapped my fingers, transforming my tiara and mourning clothes into a sundress and cardigan (I hate pants). I walked outside, brushing my red-gold hair out of my face (I have no idea where my hair came from; all my other siblings have dark hair, like Mama and Daddy). Steeling myself, I took off for the secluded back garden, where Jayde was hiding.

I brushed aside the branches of the willow tree, and found Jayde curled up at the base of Josh's sarcophagus, crying quietly. I sat next to her and hugged her, pulling her closer as she laid her head in my lap.

When it comes to my brothers and sisters and me, nobody but my parents, Aunt Henderson, and Uncle Mike can ever seem to remember which of us is which (Uncle Tre and Aunt Jinx gets confused all the time, and so does everybody else). I find that weird; it seems perfectly obvious to me. The weird thing is, though, how the six of us relate to each other. We all love each other, and despite our bickering we'd do anything for each other. But we each have our favorite sibling, the one that we relate to better than any of our other siblings or cousins. Mine is Jake. Jordan's had been Joey, and Jayde's had been Josh. I couldn't imagine how Jord and Jayde felt, to have lost their brothers. Despite how annoying and patronizing Jakob could be, he understood me better than anybody else, and I could tell him anything. I couldn't imagine losing him.

Jayde and Josh's bond had been a particularly strong one. Jayde is the quietest one of the six- well, now it was the four of us. I think that's because she's the Patron Saint of Prophecy; she's been seeing things since she was little, and that's made her really shy, and a bookworm. Josh had been the one to protect her from bullies at school, or people who made fun of her. He had also been the one to calm her down if she saw something traumatic. It had worked the other way, too; Jayde had been the only one who could cool Josh's temper, and who could coax him out of his more impossible moods.

"I miss him," Jayde choked out between sobs.  
"I know," I whispered, curling over her. "I miss him too."  
"Why didn't the Guardians bring him back?" Jayde asked. "They bring Mommy back, and Aunt Henderson, and Aunt Jinx. Why not Josh?"  
"I don't know, Jayde," I said, blinking back tears.  
"It's not fair," she cried.

I didn't know how to answer her, or what to do. Because she was right; it wasn't fair that our brothers hadn't been brought back. I held her close, hovering over her as she cried, but I didn't know how to comfort her. I closed my eyes, feeling the panic filling my chest and starting to paralyze me. I couldn't do this, this was too big a reality for me to handle. I had to be way too grown up now; I had to support my mother as her heir, I had to take care of my little sister, I had to become a warrior to help my family. Could I take that much weight on myself?

Did I have a choice?

I looked up at the bust of my eldest brother. Somehow, he had managed to bear all this pressure, to move through life with his head held high. I would learn to do the same. I might be terrified, but there was no way in hell that I was going to let my family down. Not when they needed me.

I was the future of my family, of my country. I was the Crown Princess. I would do everything I could to deserve the title, come hell or high water.


	5. Fighter

**Author's Note**: This chapter was murder to write. For whatever reason, I just couldn't bring myself to even think about writing it. I couldn't get my head wrapped around what I knew needed to happen in this chapter, and my narrating character put her stiletto-clad foot down and said, "No way in hell will you make me do this." Then yesterday, the Angst Gods descended and kicked me in the ass. Hard. And all of a sudden, for whatever reason, it was child's play to write the end of the story. Yep, the story's ending, as all stories must. And frankly, I'm relieved; much though I love the Big Four [angst, grief, pain and death], this was heavy even for me. Must get back to fluff and smut for a while...

So, the fifth and final chapter of this story covers acceptance, the final stage of the grieving process. And now it's time to hear from the one character we haven't yet; Jimmy's sister and Joey and Josh's mother. Yep, that's right, it's time for Roxie to talk. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: Still don't own Jimmy or Joey or the Streets. Still own Josh.

* * *

I woke up, suddenly and for no particular reason. Blinking in confusion, I glanced around into the darkness. When had I gotten to my room? When had I ended up naked in bed?

A glance down at the tattooed arms that held me safe confirmed that I was with Billie. That thought calmed me considerably; he must have brought me back here. Sighing in relief, I sat up, kissing his forehead when he frowned and stirred. As he shifted and fell more deeply asleep, I eased out of bed, pulling on a silk robe and grimacing at my stiff, sore back. I pointed my finger at the smoldering logs in the fireplace, and at my silent command a fire sprung up, throwing light into the darkness. I sighed as I sank into one of the two armchairs before the fire; if only I could illuminate the darkness in my mind so easily.

I had been having these memory blackouts since the accident. Large chunks of time could pass, where I would be perfectly coherent and look for all the world like I was fine. Then I would snap out of it without any recollection of what I had been doing. The blackouts terrified me; what if next time I wasn't with family? What if I made a mistake in ruling Arcadia while in blackout mode? What if something happened to someone I loved, and I was in this waking coma?

I stared into the fire blankly. One week since the accident. One solid week since I'd lost my boys, since my brother had killed them. It was hard for me to fathom. As both a Saint and as Billie's wife, I was used to things happening quickly. Evil people attacked us on a whim, my children blew things up, Billie got hurt while trying to look after the kids. But, as quickly as things happened around here, they were reversed just as quickly. Evil was (usually) easily vanquished, I could fix anything my kids destroyed, and I'd healed Billie more times than I cared to count. There was nothing in my world that I couldn't control and manage.

This, though… this was something that couldn't be reversed, something I couldn't change. My boys were dead, and it was final. Even I, the strongest Saint in the Guardians' arsenal, couldn't reverse what had happened.

I hate death. Always have, since Jimmy's and my father died when I was ten. I've died more than once, but have always managed to elude Death's grasp at the last moment; I dread the day I have to forever leave the ones I love. But this, the fact that I had lost two of my children… this was worse than death.

I stood quickly. I knew myself well enough to realize that I'd never get back to sleep now. But I didn't want to sit in my darkened chamber, especially not when I knew that Billie would yell at me for not waking him so he could keep me company. My mind made up, I slipped out the French doors and cut across the grounds to be with my boys.

As I walked, I snapped my fingers, instantly changing from a lightweight silk robe to jeans, a flannel button-down shirt of Billie's, and Converse so the dew on the grass wouldn't get my feet wet. I brushed aside the branches of the enormous, ancient willow tree, where three members of my family were now buried. I could learn to really hate this tree…

I sank onto the marble bench before the graves, numbly staring at my brother's urn. The Guardians had been adamant that his body be destroyed, that every precaution be taken to prevent his Ashurian magic from returning. As head of the Toralean Saints, as Queen of Arcadia, it had been my duty to see this done. I had to stand and watch my brother's body be immolated, had to speak the spells binding him into this urn, so he could never return and plague us.

Sometimes I wonder if the Powers live to break me.

Jimmy had been my world, once upon a time; my big brother, my protector, my best friend. Then along came his damn powers to fuck him up completely, and to utterly destroy our lives.

Jimmy hadn't received his magic from the Toralean Guardians, as Henderson, Jinx, our kids and I had. His power came from the rival Powers, the Ashurians. I won't bore you with the full history, but once upon a fucking long time ago the Toraleans and Ashurians were one big happy family. Then they began fighting over who would rule Arcadia. Long story short, the Ashurians lost, and they've been causing trouble ever since. Trouble that drew to a head when my family and I received our magic. Where Henderson's, Jinx's and my magic was geared towards healing and protection, Jimmy's was hell-bent on destruction. And when he resisted his destiny, his powers drove him insane.

From the moment I realized my brother was schizophrenic, I'd known that he would end up dead. His powers were destined to kill him, and even if they hadn't, he would've been killed in the Streets. I'd known for years that Jimmy would meet a violent end, so I'd spent the last 21 years resigning myself to someday losing him. Frankly, I was surprised that he'd lasted as long as he had. So I was resigned and accepting of his death; maybe it was better for him that way.

But never, in my wildest nightmares, had I ever seen his demise coming like this.

I knew what had happened that wretched day, as clearly as if I'd been there. One of my powers as the Jesus is the 'gift' of prophecy. Similarly, I can read what's happened in a place, almost as if I'm seeing a movie in my mind. When I got to my brother's decimated house that day, the images had hit me instantly, holding me prisoner.

Josh had been down in the Streets, playing video games with his favorite uncle. Jimmy had gotten irritated when Josh repeatedly beat him at Halo; he hadn't taken his medications that day. Then Joey had walked in… and Joey was the visual clone of one of Jimmy's least favorite people. He'd snapped, losing his control and his temper, and had attacked Joey, mistaking him for Billie. Joey had fought back, and fought hard, trying to protect Josh… but Jimmy had been slightly faster. He'd unleashed a wave of magic that had instantly killed them all, and destroyed his house to boot.

The moment Jimmy had unleashed his deadly magic, I'd known it. I know it the second anyone uses any sort of magic in my kingdom. I'd gone to his place as fast as I possibly could, but it hadn't been enough. I hadn't gotten there in time, and as a result my sons had needlessly died.

It wasn't fair, damn it. I was the Jesus of Suburbia! It was my job to save people! Why had I failed in saving my children? Why had they been taken from me?

I looked at Joey's headstone, and hot tears filled my eyes. My beloved firstborn, my eldest son and heir… my sweet Joey was dead. It was a crushing blow to me. I had held such dreams for him. He would be the finest king Arcadia had ever seen- both a warrior Saint and a Solomon. And Stella would be beside him, his Queen of Sheba, his guiding star.

It hurt to know that my dreams had died with my son. But beneath the grief was pride. Joey had died fighting- fighting to protect his brother and himself, fighting to uphold what he believed in. So though I grieved my baby's death, I knew he had died a hero, and perhaps I could lay him to rest with that thought.

Jimmy's death had been inevitable. Joey's death, while painful, had something of a purpose. Josh's death was totally and completely senseless.

My baby boy had been an innocent. Too young to fight, too young to even use his magic, really, though I know he had tried at the very end. Josh had been a dynamo, a ball of energy and potential. Now I'd never know what my youngest son would grow into. His murder had been entirely meaningless, unnecessary. How could I possibly accept what had happened to him?

I stared at the bust of my son, remembering how he had been in life. Always moving, always laughing, always in trouble, never happy unless he was causing chaos somewhere. But despite his predilection for pandemonium, Josh had always promised me that he would grow up to be a good guy, that he would fight harder even than Joey.

Josh was gone now. But I remained. And I could still fight.

I sighed and tilted my head back, looking up at the stars. I had spent my whole life fighting. Fighting for survival at home and in the Streets, fighting Jimmy's decline into madness, fighting for Billie's attention and love and then fighting to keep our marriage intact, fighting evil, fighting for my life and my crown. I was tired, so very tired of always having to battle something.

But, I was the Jesus of Suburbia. I was Roxanne Sotera, Queen of Arcadia. If I didn't fight, who would?

Yes, I had lost my brother and my sons to the evil of the Ashurians. But the way I saw it, I had two options. Either I could shut down and lose myself in my grief- a path that I knew would without a doubt lead back to the Streets and a Novacaine addiction- or I could attempt to work through the grief, and live on.

Well, I may get sick of struggles, but I'm a fighter.

Drawing a deep breath, I stood and walked away, back towards the palace. My boys were gone, but I was still here to fight for them. I had memorial statues to design, a kingdom to run, and a war against the Ashurians to plan. I would do my duty, so no other woman would ever have to endure what I did.

And maybe through the work, I would find peace and acceptance for the loss of my sons, and forgiveness for myself that I hadn't been there to stop it.


End file.
